My Anime Shopping Tree & My Cold Prodigy Wife!
Episode-188

Chapter : 375

And the bitterness had taken root in Rubel’s soul. A cold, hard, poison that had grown with him, nurtured by every whispered slight, by every reminder of his family’s stolen legacy. He saw his cousin, Roy, Malachi’s son, grow up with the full weight of the Arch Duchy’s resources behind him, groomed for the power that should have been Rubel’s. He saw Roy, so much like his father—stern, pragmatic, a believer in the strength of arms—inherit the throne that was his by right of blood, but not of birth.

His ambition was not just a lust for power. It was a quest for restitution. A desperate, lifelong attempt to right a historical wrong, to reclaim the legacy that had been stolen from his father, from his line. Every political maneuver, every subtle undermining of Roy’s authority, every effort to promote his own son, Rayan—a boy who, blessedly, possessed the aggressive, martial spirit his grandfather had lacked—was a battle in this long, secret war.

He had believed, for a brief, glorious moment, that he was on the verge of victory. That with Lloyd’s apparent mediocrity and Rayan’s undeniable strength, he could finally convince the family elders to correct the course, to return the line of succession to its rightful place.

And then, Lloyd, the drab duckling, the unexpected variable, had shattered it all. With his hidden power, his strange new mind, his damnable, revolutionary soap.

He looked at Rayan again, at his son, the vessel for all his hopes, now sullen and defeated. And the bitterness in his soul, the cold poison of a lifetime of perceived injustice, flared into a new, hotter, more desperate fire.

If tradition had failed him, if politics had failed him, if the very laws of succession could be bent to the will of the powerful, then he would find a new power. A power that did not care for tradition. A power that did not respect the established order. A power that answered only to ambition, to will, to the desperate, burning desire for what was rightfully his.

The viper in the shadows was no longer content to wait, to plot, to maneuver. He was ready to seek a new, more potent, venom. A venom that would poison the very foundations of the house that had wronged him, and allow him, finally, to claim the throne from its ruins.

—

The days that followed the disastrous Summit were a slow, suffocating descent into a private hell for Viscount Rubel Ferrum. The manor, once a symbol of his power and influence as head of the primary cadet branch, now felt like a gilded cage, its walls echoing with the whispers of his public humiliation. Servants, who had once scurried to obey his every command, now moved with a new, subtle insolence, their eyes holding a flicker of pitying contempt. His allies in the other branch families, men who had once eagerly sought his counsel and support, now found themselves conveniently unavailable, their missives unanswered, their invitations suddenly, regrettably, lost. He was a political leper, his influence stripped, his authority a hollow echo.

He spent his days locked in his study, the rich vintage wines tasting like vinegar, the intricate political treatises on his shelves mocking him with their tales of power and strategy. He would stare for hours at the portrait of his father, Gideon, the gentle, scholarly man whose stolen birthright had become the poisoned chalice from which Rubel had drunk his entire life. The bitterness was a physical thing, a corrosive acid eating away at his insides, leaving behind only a cold, hollow ache of impotent fury.

His son, Rayan, was no comfort. The boy, his pride shattered, his confidence a ruin, alternated between sullen, resentful silence and furious, explosive outbursts. He would spend hours in the training yard, punishing the practice dummies with a desperate, unfocused rage, his obsidian bear spirit, Kongor, a roaring, destructive force beside him. But there was no joy in his strength anymore, only the bitter frustration of a power that had proven insufficient.

“He cheated, Father!” Rayan would snarl, bursting into the study, his face flushed, sweat plastering his dark hair to his temples. “Lloyd cheated! Those wires, that trick with my senses… it wasn’t fair! It wasn’t true Ferrum power!”

“Power is power, Rayan,” Rubel would reply, his voice weary, devoid of its usual sharp edge. “Fairness is a luxury the victor bestows upon the vanquished. He was stronger. Or smarter. In the end, it amounts to the same thing.”

The admission, the stark, brutal truth of it, would only fuel Rayan’s rage further, and he would storm out, leaving Rubel alone once more with his ghosts and his sour wine.

Chapter : 376

It was on the fifth night of this self-imposed exile, as a cold, persistent rain lashed against the study windows, a miserable percussion accompanying his equally miserable thoughts, that the knock came.

It was not the soft, deferential rap of a servant. It was a sharp, confident, and entirely unexpected, series of three distinct raps on the heavy oak door of his study. Not the main entrance of the manor, but his private, secluded study door, a room no one entered without a direct, explicit summons.

Rubel froze, his hand halfway to refilling his goblet. Who? Who would dare? His personal guards were stationed in the main hall. No one should have been able to reach this wing of the manor unannounced, unnoticed.

“Who is there?” he called out, his voice sharp, laced with a mixture of annoyance and a sudden, prickling unease.

The door opened slowly, smoothly, without a sound. And a man stepped inside.

He was a stranger. Rubel was certain of it. He had a memory for faces, a politician’s necessary skill, and this man was not one he had ever encountered in any court, any guild hall, any noble gathering. He was tall, unnaturally so, with a slender, almost willowy, frame that seemed to glide rather than walk. He was dressed in robes of a deep, starless black, the fabric of a quality Rubel couldn’t immediately identify, seeming to absorb the flickering firelight rather than reflect it. His face was long, handsome in a sharp, angular way, with high cheekbones and a pale, almost translucent, complexion. His hair was the color of polished silver, cut short, severe.

But it was his eyes that held Rubel captive. They were a pale, startling, almost luminous, shade of grey, like storm clouds on a winter horizon. And they held an expression of profound, ancient, and deeply unsettling, amusement. It was the smile of a predator that knows it has already won, that is simply enjoying the final, terrified moments of its prey.

“Viscount Rubel Ferrum,” the man said, his voice a smooth, silken, almost hypnotic purr. It was a voice that seemed to bypass the ears and resonate directly in the soul, a voice that could charm a snake, soothe a king, or, Rubel suspected, whisper a man to his damnation. “My humblest apologies for the unannounced intrusion. I trust I am not disturbing you?” The question was a mockery, his pale grey eyes sweeping over the disordered study, the half-empty wine decanter, the despair etched on Rubel’s face, taking it all in with that same unnerving, amused detachment.

Rubel shot to his feet, his hand instinctively going to the hilt of the small, decorative dagger at his belt. “Who are you?” he demanded, his voice tight with a mixture of anger and a fear he would not admit, even to himself. “How did you get past my guards?”

The stranger simply smiled, a slow, predatory unfolding of his thin lips. He made no move, yet the very air in the room seemed to grow colder, heavier. “Your guards are… sleeping, Viscount. A deep, peaceful, and entirely dreamless, sleep. As for who I am…” He took a step further into the room, his movements fluid, silent. “Let us just say I am a friend. A friend to those who have been wronged. A friend to those whose ambition has been unjustly thwarted. A friend,” he paused, his pale grey eyes locking onto Rubel’s, a spark of something dark and ancient gleaming within their depths, “to those who seek a power that the world has denied them.”

He stopped a few paces from Rubel’s desk. “I have been observing you, Viscount,” he continued, his voice a low, intimate murmur. “I have watched your long, patient struggle. I have felt the sting of your humiliations. I witnessed the… unfortunate events of the recent Summit.” He shook his head, a gesture of profound, theatrical sympathy. “A tragedy. To see a man of your vision, your rightful ambition, so cruelly, so publicly, cast down. To see your legacy, your father’s legacy, trampled under the feet of a mediocre boy who has stumbled into a power he does not understand and does not deserve.”

Every word was a perfectly aimed dart, striking directly at the heart of Rubel’s deepest, most bitter wounds. He was not just speaking of the events; he was validating them, articulating the very narrative of injustice that had festered in Rubel’s soul for a lifetime.